Broken Crown

by Susan Ward

  I go into the family room and stare out the wall of glass. Ah, there she is. She’s curled in a chair, face tilted to the sun, long, messy, unbrushed blond hair streaming down her back, and she’s got Khloe in her arms latched to her breast.

  God, she’s got fantastic breasts.

  Fuck, kid got there first.

  Chrissie’s not going back to bed with me today.

  I slide open the door and step out. I hang back and watch her for a moment. She’s breathtaking in the morning. Even dressed like that. An old Cal sweatshirt, boxer shorts, and heavy, comfy, thick knit footy socks with the toes turned into idiotic designs of a dog’s face. The mommy wardrobe of a woman exiting her youth. I find her sexy dressed even in that.

  Her face turns toward me. “I made coffee. It’s there on the patio table. You probably can finish a cup before you have to hit the road.”

  Not the good morning I wanted.

  She smiles. “I’d make you breakfast before you go only my hands are full.”

  “I don’t need breakfast. You should have just brought Khloe back to bed with us. I would have rather woken up with you.”

  I pour a cup of coffee and settle on the chair next to her. Chrissie lapses into silence. She doesn’t look at me. I wonder if this feels as strange to her as it does to me, like we’re moving cautiously in every move. Are we off? Or is it this odd ritual of deliberately pulling apart from each other in the morning and her kicking me out before the kids return?

  The smile is no longer on her face. OK, she’s feeling something, too, and doesn’t like this either. This sneaking out of the house nonsense is not going to work for me. I rake a hand through my hair, trying to organize how to say this to her. It’s better to be upfront.

  “I understand what you’re trying to do,” I say carefully, “and why you think you need to do it. But this is the last time I spend the night with you and slip out the side door early in the morning. And don’t expect me to pretend I don’t love you, that we’re not involved, when we’re around your kids.”

  Her eyes flash. “That’s not what I’m asking you to do. I’m asking you to have a little sensitivity for my children. You can’t force change on children too quickly. It’s better that we move slowly in this.”

  Sensitivity?

  Is she fucking kidding?

  That was insensitive to me, Chrissie.

  “One of your children is mine,” I bite out before I can stop myself. “Am I sneaking out the back door to be sensitive for her, too? For how long are we going to do this? One year? Ten? This is absurd. You’ve already told your kids everything. They know I’m Khloe’s father. Me being here with you shouldn’t surprise any of them. I’m not being insensitive. I want to be here. With all of you. It isn’t even change for the kids.”

  Where the fuck did that speech come from? Be here? With all of them? What am I saying? Even I’m not sure and lack of declarative sentences is never a good thing with Chrissie. She always takes everything wrong.

  I shift my gaze to find her studying my face. Fuck, I know that expression.

  “I think you need to leave, Alan,” she says, lowering her gaze to Khloe as she takes back her nipple. She jerks her shirt down and hurries into the house.

  Oh fuck, that worked out brilliantly.

  I don’t finish my coffee. I go back into the house and into the kitchen to wait for her. A few minutes later, she returns. She doesn’t have Khloe in her arms anymore. Hopefully not an indication she’s in the mood to continue the fight. Time to start this over.

  “Why don’t we just get married this time, Chrissie? We can figure it all out as we need to.”

  I say the words before I realize what they are. What the fuck is wrong with me? Did I just ask her to marry me after our first night being back together over coffee and a fight? This is not going to go well.

  The air fills with prickling tension.

  She stares at me.

  Anxious. Frustrated. Angry.

  “I’m forty-one years old, Alan. I have five kids. I don’t have a right to make snap decisions. I don’t have a right to have affairs in front of my children. And I definitely don’t have a right not to put them first. I can’t let myself decide life changes for them for the sake of expediency or sleeping a few extra hours in bed in the morning. I’m sorry if you find that inconvenient. It’s the way it is. Learn to deal with it.”

  All those words. A tight little speech. Not one useful line to clarify things for me. Fuck, she didn’t even acknowledge the proposal with a direct answer. I may have done that badly, but I was serious and I know that she knows that.

  Damn it.

  I can feel it.

  We’re slipping back into the quagmire. It’s time to be perfectly clear. It will probably have the effect of a pipe bomb being lit inside Chrissie.

  “I’m here, Chrissie. That’s my daughter in the nursery. So get used to the idea of me fitting in somewhere in your life. As for where we are today, whatever we’re doing, it’s not an affair so don’t call it that again. Talk to your kids. Do what you need to do. Decide what you want from me. I asked you to marry me. I apologize for having done it poorly. But I meant it. I expect a serious answer from you. And this is the last time I slip out in the morning so the kids don’t see me.”

  She stares at me. Silent. No explosion, but she doesn’t look happy. Fine, Chrissie. We’ll do it your way. Oh fuck, just don’t make it last forever.

  It’s time for me to leave. This is not the way I hoped my morning would end and I don’t want to ruin it further.

  I lean in and place a light kiss on her cheek. She doesn’t look at me. Nope, she’s angry and not going to soften up anytime soon and she certainly is not going to go back to bed with me.

  I go down the hallway to the nursery. Khloe is asleep in her crib. It’s an unexpectedly unpleasant feeling knowing I’m slipping out the door in a house where my daughter sleeps.

  I stare down at her and then drop a kiss on the top of her head. Nothing. She doesn’t stir. She is a sound sleeper. I could have had a great fucking morning with Chrissie if I hadn’t blown it.

  As I make my way to the front door, I debate going back in and trying to talk to her. I’m not sure what more there is to say. I told her my perspective on this. I’ve asked her to marry me. I’ve asked for an answer. Better not to go back. I should give her some time to sort through this. It will work out better if I don’t push her.

  I stop at the console table next to the front door. Fuck, my keys are gone. I pat the pockets of my pants and don’t feel anything. Who took my keys? Oh fuck, if it was Ethan I’ll never find them.

  I open the front door, grab my phone from my pocket and then hit the app. I’ll just turn on the car remotely. I don’t hear anything. Does the fucking app not work?

  I stop. I stare. I turn off the phone. Fuck. My car is gone. Did someone steal it? Then I see Kaley’s black Lexus parked in the driveway. Oh fuck. She didn’t. Dread curls in my digestive tract.

  Why would she do that?

  Why would she take my car?

  Oh no. She must have come back last night. She saw me here and she’s old enough to know what I was doing with her mother.

  She’s upset.

  Sensitivity.

  I get it, Chrissie.

  Message received, Kaley.

  Discovering me here last night has propelled Kaley from hostile over Khloe to ready to provoke confrontation. I’m not certain why Kaley is so angry about this—it’s indisputable she’s angry—but we used to have such a good relationship.

  I don’t understand her anymore. Her unrelenting unpleasantness. That’s not Kaley. Memories of her as a little girl intrude in my thoughts. She was such a little sweetheart, but then I remember she did like confrontation. The girl has been throwing emotional Molotov cocktails whenever she could almost from birth. An attribute that irritates the hell out of me. Though there were times it was amusing. But it’s not going to be amusing today. She’s decided to finally let it
out and she wants a face-to-face with me.

  I need to find my car.

  I hit the find my car app and wait. A map loads. Well, at least she didn’t go far with it. I take a moment to wonder why she’s at Ian Kennedy’s, then I recall when she texted Chrissie that she was spending the night at the Kennedys’.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve walked a city mile anywhere. I’ve always found LA an unpleasant place for pedestrians. At least it’s still early. The streets are nearly empty and not enough cars have crossed the concrete yet for the asphalt to have that horrid carbon monoxide smell that makes walking even in Pacific Palisades particularly unpleasant. There’s still the undiluted salty tang of an ocean breeze as I walk downhill toward Ian’s place.

  Clear air in LA for a change.

  This is fucking humiliating.

  No one walks in LA.

  Kaley wants to get my attention.

  Well, fine, she’s got it.

  I’ve been to Ian’s house hundreds of time. Why does everything look different when you walk? I check my phone, using the GPS for directions. Everything is thrown together, especially the residential streets, in a haphazard way in LA.

  There, I know that house. Large Spanish villa, stucco walls, and black iron gate. Oh fuck, there is no way through the gate without ringing.

  I hit the button on the intercom. I wait several minutes. Nothing. I don’t give a fuck if you’re sleeping Ian. I camp on the button.

  “Manny, is that you?”

  Ian’s drowsy voice on the static intercom.

  Christ, he can see me on the security cameras.

  I bypass pleasantries. “Open the fucking gate, Ian.”

  “Manny? What the fuck are you doing out walking in my neighborhood this time of day? Jesus Christ, is everything OK, man?”

  I grimace. “I need to pick up my car. It’s in your driveway.”

  A startled laugh. “How the fuck did your car get to my house? What the hell did you do last night?” More laughter. “Must have been one hell of a party with Jen. Lucky bastard.”

  I wait. I’m not explaining. Buzz.

  I open the walk-through gate and make my way up the sharp incline of the driveway. Ian is standing on his front stoop carelessly covered in a robe, looking half asleep yet humiliatingly amused by this.

  He’s staring at my Bugatti Veyron Super Sport and shaking his head. Christ, I hate that car. Gauche. Why did I buy it last year? Probably out of boredom and it was something to do.

  “You must have had some crazy night, brother.”

  I shove my phone into my pocket. “No crazy night. I didn’t leave my car here. It was stolen from Chrissie’s.”

  His eyes widen and I can tell what he’s thinking. Hmm, Chrissie. Then Ian frowns and his expression changes to alarm.

  “Oh, shit,” Ian exclaims, the muscles of his face contorting. “I thought Zoe was joking last night when the girls got home and she told me Kaley had stolen a car.”

  “Technically, both girls stole my car since they both drove away in it. I suggest that you get those girls out here now.”

  The look on his face grows grimmer. Thank you, Ian. Now you’re getting the picture, maybe you’ll stop being obnoxious over this and start taking the situation seriously.

  “I’m sorry about this, man. It doesn’t look like they’ve done any damage. Come inside. Have some coffee. I’ll go find them.”

  “I don’t want coffee. I’d like a few minutes alone to talk with Kaley. Then I’m heading out of here.”

  He’s still shaking his head as he moves through the house. “What the fuck is wrong with kids? Why would they steal your car? I swear I never know what the hell to expect from Zoe anymore.”

  Ian pours me a cup of coffee even though I said I didn’t want one, sets it on the breakfast bar, and makes a fast retreat from the room.

  I wait. Christ, what’s taking him so long? Maybe he’s talking to the girls before he sends them out here. Probably not a bad idea. He does have more experience than I do in this.

  I hear footsteps in the hallway. I stand and turn to face the doorway. Kaley ambles into the room, and fuck, Ian, I said alone. Why are you and your daughter here?

  Kaley meets my gaze directly. She doesn’t look worried. Hell, she doesn’t even look contrite.

  I struggle for calm. “I believe you have something that’s mine.”

  Kaley’s eyes flash with anger. She locks eyes with Zoe. “What did I tell you? Nothing. Whatever I do he never gets angry at me. I swear one of these days I’m going to explode. I can’t take it anymore.”

  Angry? She is angry because I am not angry? Ian’s right. There is something wrong with kids these day.

  “Oh, believe me, Kaley, I am very angry. I just prefer not to yell in Ian’s kitchen. Go grab your things. Get in the car. We’ll go somewhere where we can both yell until you can explain to me what stealing my car is about.”

  No change in her demeanor. Her answering expression is insulting. “Did you have a nice night with my mother?”

  I’m startled to feel my cheeks warm. “That’s what this is about? You stole my car because you’re angry that I spent the night with your mother?”

  She shifts her gaze from me and scans the kitchen. When she finally looks back at me, her eyes are wide open and furious.

  “Why should I be angry about that? You’ve used my mom as an emotional crash pad my entire life. I’ve watched this movie before. I know how it ends. So why don’t you leave before you fuck up my family even more than it is already?”

  I stare at her and some of my anger wanes. I get it, Kaley, what’s happening here, and a part of me respects her for saying that. For being concerned about Chrissie. For being concerned about her siblings. Every word accurate; none of it right. Still, I admire Kaley’s honesty and directness.

  “I’m not doing anything of the sort, Kaley.”

  Her mouth scrunches. She starts shaking her head. She flips her hair, and then again, over and over, a tense series of silence and gestures. The little gestures remind me of Chrissie. Just like her mother, even in anger there is something vulnerable about Kaley that tugs at the heart. In part Chrissie and yet entirely herself.

  I think of Khloe. An inconvenient thought at present. I wonder if my girl is going to grow up as miraculous as this girl trying her best to infuriate me.

  OK, there’s a lot going on here. I should leave Chrissie to handle it. I don’t want to cross the line and do more than I should. The limit of my participation should be retrieving my car.

  I decide to blow past her last comment. “Go get your stuff. I’ll drive you home.”

  Kaley looks away. “I don’t have to go anywhere with you. You’re not my father.”

  The way she says that hits me like a blast of chilled air—her voice and expression disturbing—and she looks, for the first time, almost like she’s going to cry.

  “I suggest you get moving. Now, Kaley.”

  Kaley’s fingers curl around the counter until her knuckles turn white. “I should have wrecked the fucking car!”

  Why does she keep pushing at me and upping the ante?

  What am I doing wrong here?

  She’s already playing Grand Theft Auto real life.

  Doesn’t she get that?

  “I don’t give a damn about the car, Kaley.” It’s a lame gesture, but I’m fucking running out of options, and maybe she’ll get it. I remove a rolling pin from a kitchen countertop utensil set and hold it out to her. “Wreck away. Destroy the car if you think it will help you. Then maybe you’ll be ready to talk to me and you can explain to me why you’re angry.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you. It’s pointless. It always has been. I’m not leaving here with you. Call the cops if you want to. I don’t care.”

  Rigid. Intractable.

  “I’m trying to cut you a break here, Kaley.”

  Her eyes meet mine again, challenging. Insulting.

  “You’re not cutting me a break. T
hat’s not what you’re doing here. Denial may be a terminal addiction for you, but even you should be able to figure out that I’m not a child anymore and I’m not stupid.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  “I know you’re not a child. I’ve never thought you were stupid. I know you’ve been through a lot lately. It’s why I’m willing to let this go and take you home.”

  She takes in several, rapid, ragged breaths. “Now you’re just being patronizing and stupid.”

  She pushes away from the counter and runs from the room. A few minutes later she returns and slaps something down on the counter in front of me, a look of pure venom and challenge in her eyes.

  She lifts her hand so I can see the box.

  GeneSys Home Paternity Test.

  Oh fuck.

  She stole my car to get me here, away from Chrissie, to do this.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask in disbelief.

  “You can buy more than condoms at the drug store.”

  I have to work not to visibly flinch at that remark. Reference to condoms. Shoving that box in my face. That’s a twofer. Double direct hit.

  “I’m not going to take that. You’re being ridiculous. You’ve embarrassed me. Are you happy?”

  She calmly removes and then unwraps one giant, long Q-tip looking instrument. God, she has nerve. She holds it out to me. “Touch it inside your cheek and give it back to me. I can do the rest myself.”

  I study her face. It feels like I don’t even know her anymore. How could she think I would need a DNA test with her mother?

  I meet her hostile gaze, hoping my eyes are calm, but direct. “This is about Khloe. Your constant anger at me, everything you’ve done this morning, it is about your sister. Yes, she’s my daughter, you are going to have to figure out a way to be OK with that, and I don’t need to take a DNA test, Kaley. There is no doubt in my mind and I won’t do it. I would never hurt your mother that way. Your mother’s word is enough for me. It should be enough for you, too.”

  Every muscle of her face sharply adjusts and then tightens. “God, you’re an idiot,” she screams into my face.

  She snatches the box off the counter and rushes out of the kitchen. Zoe follows quickly behind. A door slams.